


And If There's a Reason I'm Still Alive

by SearchingforSerendipity



Series: The Second Life and Opinions of Aaron Burr Jr., Ex-Esquire [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Butterfly Effect, M/M, Other, Redemption, Time Travel, hamburrger - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:05:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5901169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Was that the same with himself, he wondered. Had he ever been that young and full of potential? He couldn't remember that, but it wasn't something a boy would notice. He was tired now, was all he knew.</em>
</p><p><em>And lonely. Suddenly it was hard to breathe through the burn in his throat.</em> <br/> <br/><em>"Let's just say I had a change of heart." He tried for a smirk but it came out more like a grimace. "Figured I should do less, think more."</em><br/> </p><p> </p><p>Aaron Burr passes away in his bed, eighty year old with a soul heavy with regrets. He wakes up as a fifteen year old in Princeton. History, it would seem, is not quite done with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death Feels More Like a Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SonglordsBug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonglordsBug/gifts).



They find him in Weehawken, kneeling in the rain. Decades before Hamilton's blood wet this field it had already established a reputation as dueling grounds. It grew early once more, however, dawn hidden behind the rain shower, and only cowards fought in the dark.

Burr didn't fight. He lets them heave him to his feet, warm him with a blanket. Someone shoved a handkerchief under his nose on the way back to Princeton. He knew his face was dirty afer throwing up, but it was only then that he noticed he had cried.

When they ask him why he ran, he almost tells them. He had gone out in search of the place where it all ended, and realised halfway to New York that he had gone the wrong way.

  
*

What first awakes him was the light coming in though the shutters. The room of his death had been dark, the windows always covered by curtains. The warmth falling on face was nearly a novel experience, but not as much as the vitality coursing though his limbs.

He had been young like this, once. Strong and fast and bright, a rising star aweing everyone. Age and failure had stripped that from him, chipping away at every last accomplishment.

He lays still for centuries, ages without breathing, without daring to move. All of Burr's life he had feared to move, worried that it was too soon, too bold, but for once he faltered because it was too impossible.

In the end it was that same train of thought that motivates him. For if this was Heaven unlikely, Hell - rather more probable or whatever other possibility designed for atheists; regardless of where he is, he had waited long enough. His bare feet hit the ground with careful, careful disbelief. The shock of it makes him tremble, knocks his knees - thin and springy and easy to bend - together.

The walls are solid under his hands, his legs strong when he uses them. His mind had not been this clear in years, certainly not after the stroke. Sunshine hurt his eyes, leaves him half-blind.

  
I am a ghost, he thinks then. I am stuck in-between worlds forevermore. In hat moment it seems almost hilarious. Aaron Burr, unmoving in death as he was in life. But that was wrong; ghosts weren't supposed to be able to touch objects. He placed a hand on his chest, another on his neck, and the beating beneath was not the one of a shade, or his childhood tales were much mistaken. He thought on that some more because to think otherwise is unthinkable, unbelievable, it is --

It is utterly impossible - a dream, the hallucination of a dying man, a corpse's last try at peace.

It is impossible, yet here he is. The Princeton of his youth (no, not Princeton yet, Colllege of New Jersey for now) was a maze of hallway and running students. Burr staggers in a daze out of the dorm room, still wearing his night-clothes, as the students - so young, _so young oh god_ how had he become so young?- went about their early business.

Someone knocks against his shoulder. They turned around to apologize and he is stuck in place with growing horror. James Madison, tiny and baby-faced and not a day after fifteen, stares at him with a growing frown.

"Burr? Everything alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

That's when he turns around and runs.  
*

In the morning he wakes up gasping, ears ringing from the aftermath of a phantom gunshot. It happens again the next morning, and the next, and the next.

*

The truth dawned on him in pieces and stutters.

The days followed a muddled script and he, an actor who forgot his lines. He studied, spoke with his colleagues in passing, bore the indignity of being a child again with little grace. Cautious prodding quickly showed that either he is surrounded by adept actors or he was the only misplaced soul in Princeton. But it took staying alive for some four months to realize why God or whatever entity in control of his fate had decided to return him to the year of 1772.

Before he even chose to become a lawyer, before Hamilton and the war and the United States, Aaron Burr had been a boy like any other. That it took traveling so far back in his lifetime to find something wholesome did not surprise him, but it did hurt, more than he had expected. After everything, his narrative had brought nothing good to History.

Was that his first mistake? Choosing to pursue the Law, deviate from the religious path, become a part of history? At this time he had been just another student of Arts, any plans to study theology still in the making. He had not even considered becoming a lawyer. Who was to say how the world would have looked like without his interference?

The epiphany that his prolonged existence was in fact a plot from the Powers That Be to correct the mistakes of his first life was not a heartwarming one, or easy. One thing was to know and even experience the deconstruction of all his plans and ambitions and suffer due humiliation, quite another was to fail so spectacularly that Charon himself refused him entrance upon the Underworld. His attempt to convince himself it was a hallucination, an a dream, didn't last a day. It was an exercise in insanity to exist like that, and he had never been the imaginative type. Resourceful, to be sure, creative when he had to be, but not to the point of creating such an encompassing fantasy.

Maybe this was punishment. Some sort of limbo or Purgatory, imprisonment with no hope of parole or bail. So be it; he accepted his guilt, even if he disliked calling it a sin. After so much and so long, he could easily admit that he deserved the capital sentence. He had killed a man - more than one, counting with his miliary career, but clearly heavenly law did not care for the code duello.

He had been idle too long, but that in itself was no flaw, no matter what others had thought. Idleness, when chosen favorably, was the most sensible choice (the most selfless one, too) .

Aaron Burr chooses. He never touches a book of Law again.

  
*

  
It had been Autumn when he came to be again. Now the trees were stark dark fingers reaching for the skies, weighted with snow more often than not. It was an overcast winter, with clouds like leaden weights and a freeze that bit deep and nasty. Burr did not care. He went out in rain and snow, braved the elements with malicious delight. It pleased him that the world without reflected the void within.

Bedecked with woolen layers, boots leaving tracks in he virgin snows, he prowled the streets of colonized New Jersey. There was a true happiness in moving, that is true, in walking and jogging and jumping, using new muscles unhindered by age, but even that is dampened by his anguish.

_Why am I still alive? I ought to be dead. How often did I wish to be dead already, lying in that damned bed? God, let me die. I pray to you, if there is a reason I am still alive let it be over soon. I've waited for death for too long. Why me? Why me when so many saints deserve a new life so much more than I do? I am a sinner, take me, damn me to Hell, but free me from this half-existence. Hamilton would know what to do with a second life but I do not. I do not want it. I do not --_

Breath puffed out mist, snow fell. It was a season of mourning, the interminable gloom before spring; he never truly realized when it ended, only that it took a long painful dragging of time and doubt. The winter of the soul settled in, made itself comfortable.

  
*

One afternoon he was called out by a professor in front of the class.

  
"Mr. Burr, since you are so focused in the lesson, you won't mind running an errand."

  
Some classmates laughed. His skin burned, not with shame but anger. It galled, to be treated likea schoolboy for men who had lived fewer years that he, as if they there was anything they could teach him. It was just one of many adaptations that weren't going smoothly. Even in exile those who had mocked him had seen him as an adult.

  
Still, better to keep a low profile. "Yes, sir."

  
"Good." The professor passed a stack of papers though the students until they found him. "Take these to Mr. Madison, he's ill again. Make sure he knows what we spoke of today."

  
He nodded and left the classroom. The hall was pleasantly silent after the classroom, but in truth he did not dislike the sounds of activity. Sickness had been both the quiet of the dying and the hidden screaming of the wretched. Outside the first fleet of birds rested from their trip, feather's still heavy with skylines a world away.

It was true that he hadn't been paying attention to what the professor said, but it wasnt like he hadn't heard it all before. It wasn't as if he was in any hurry to graduate; one time as a pioneer was one time enough. Let another child make history by graduating early from Princeton. Burr had no space in himself for boyish worries, much as he wished it were so.

  
The ground was thick with thaw-mud, making his footsteps heavy. He reached the hall for single rooms. Madison's was down the corridor, facing away from the trees that gave him allergies.

  
"Come in." A nasal voice said after he knocked. The room was a mess of strewn clothes and dirty handkerchiefs. In the left side of the room a bed messy with stray papers belonging to Philip Freneau, who would one day become a poet of renown, whose works his wife had been an admirer of, faced the window.

Madison was laying down, a small mountain of pillows with some four books spread over it making the role of table. His corner of the room was far neater. He looked up when he got in. A bang of sweaty hair fell on his face, and when his hand came to move it his wrists were far thinner than they ought to be.

  
"Hello, Burr. What brings you to my sickbed?"

  
"I got the papers you missed. The professor spoke to us about the Hundred Years War. We debated on the merits of the french strategy versus the british one during the Middle Ages."

  
"Thanks." He flipped the pages before setting them aside and turning back to Burr with a thoughtful look. "Can I ask you a question and you promise to answer honestly?" Madison asked, deceivingly meek as ever.

Burr lifted his eyebrows. "You can, but I make no promises."

Madison shrugged. "Fair enough." For a moment Burr worried he would ask about that damned awakening, but instead he said, "How come you haven't been out lately? You used to be the life of the party, but these days we're lucky to get a peep out of you."

Burr almost brushed it off. It would be easy to make an excuse about the course load, trying to settle down. Respectability was a high goal, after all, nothing strange in a student seeking to make himself more mature.

But looking at Madison now, pasty pale, sweating, but with eyes clear and untouched by fever as they stared at him, it seemed absurd that this small boy could ever been the fourth President to the United States. And he hadn't been, he reminded himself. For now Madison was just a boy, often sick, his friend, just a shadow of the ruthless politician he would-- _could_ grow up to be.

Was that the same with himself, he wondered. Had he ever been that young and full of potential? He couldn't remember that, but it wasn't something a boy would notice. He is tired now, was all he knew. And lonely. Perhaps he had always been, but old age had not been kind and he had not done himself any favors either time around. Suddenly it was hard to breathe through the burn in his throat.

"Let's just say I had a change of heart." He tried for a smirk but it came out more like a grimace. "Figured I should do less, think more."

Madison looked curious but did not press. Instead he pointed to a chair.

"Do you want to stay? Classes are almost over for the day, we have in essay Thursday and I haven't been to any of the classes." He sighed when Burr demurred. "Come on, just scoot over. Doing this little favour to a sick man isn't going to be the end of the world.You'll have plenty of time for thinking afterwards."

Burr hesitated for another moment, almost told him sorry but I really should be going, you see-- , but not so long ago it had been him lying in a sickbed, and then there had been none keeping him company. He sits in the corner of the bed and starts explaining Roman Oligarchy.

  
It becomes a tradition, keeping Madison company when he was sick, sitting together in companionable silence. In the library and classes, he looked around and saw, as if for the first time, his classmates. Children all, they reminded him not so much of himself but of his own children, the sons lost to sickness and the daughter lost at sea. Soon, without meaning to, Aaron Burr became know as the men to find when in need of free explanations in a multitude of subjects, from philosophy to history and german.

  
The only area he had no help to offer was the law. Eighty years were a long time to amass knowledge, if not wisdom. If selfishness was one of his many faults, and he was self-aware enough to say so, then it was reasonable that sharing should be a way to learn better. He didn't learn much, but it did get him to talk to people again, not just stare despairingly without seeing, and he found to his surprise that teaching was not dreadful. Not for him; he was reliably told that he was quite the taskmaster, but this was nothing to Theodosia's education.

Madison hadn't known what he had been talking about, but he might be on to something. He could not get involved with politics, that much was obvious, but just because he is doomed to an insignificant life didn't mean he couldn't contribute somehow. If not greatness, then goodness would have to do.

He stood in front of a group of boys in the campus' grounds and though he could not teach then fairness and virtue, he spoke of history and religion, how men made gods out of flesh, empires out of mud, rightness out of chaos.

 _History is a treacherous God,_ he tells them. _And it is deaf to all prayers._

  
_It sees and records, but never the whole truth. It discriminates; It obliterates; the pictures it paints are never the complete frame. It takes sides every time, and the heroes it forgets are called casualties and none remembers them,_ he says, thinking of Laurens and so many others like him, youths who had died too young but lived so fully.

 _Legends can rise up from nothing_ (orphan immigrant son of a whore--). _Or prove their mettle under undocumented fire._ Eliza Hamilton, who bore betrayal and loss like a veteran, strength in no way hindered by her softness.

  
_Villains weep and smile the same as saints do_ , he preaches, tricking himself into thinking that if at least one of the children here heard him it would be worth it, second life and all. _You do not need to understand how History works. Legacies fade and wither, but so do we. Do the best you can, however and whenever you do it - that will be the greatest legacy you will leave behind. Live, fully, hesitate when you must, act only when it is timely - that will be enough._

  
He feels like a fraud, teaching these things, as if Death had made him some sort of expert on morality, which it certainly has not, as if he were not an old demon in a child's guise, only here because on a whim from Fate.

But few of the students leave and most listen. Some even hear him. None of them understands, not now, but they might one day. If they do, he hopes it is not by making the same mistakes he had.

  
He still feels like is on trial, every exculpatory evidence m

ade obsolete. He cannot seriously remember a time he had not felt like he was waiting judgement (lie lie lie he knew very well when it started; when it all ended) but now the court was watching and his sentence had been passed. Lawyer made defendant by the Great Judge: there was a certain irony there.

(He had walked the bridge of despair, old age and a stroke. Now he stood in the other side, uncertain, alone, with no excuses to make, no jury to sway. This existence, no matter how unbelievable, was a benediction, or at the very least the possibility of one.

  
Scoffing in the face of atonement was not something he had the luxury to do)

And at night, every night, with his colleagues snoring nearby, he stayed up for a long time after curfew. Thinking about writing, and waiting, and the weight of a pistol in his hand. Then he lighted a candle, fished in the shadows for a quill and a scrap of paper. His fingers itched. He had tarried too long already.  
It was about time he started working on his own deliverance.


	2. You Keep Out of Trouble And You Double Your Choices

They ask him to speak. Madison will tell him later that it was a choice of the students, that the clubs got together to request that the faculty let Aaron Burr make the graduation speech. He will sigh and call them all bothers, but the pride kindled in his breast will not abate that easily. It is a novel feeling, to be this appreciated. 

It is the first time he is asked to speak publicly in this incarnation. Before there had been inaugurations and conferences and statements, yet none of them had been as important as this one. None of them had been a goodbye, after all.

It is a good speech, he supposes, as far as improvised speeches go. That surprised even himself- after days worrying about how to best convey warnings, how to phrase his message - Aaron Burr, with a personal message!- he ends up ignoring the prepared spiel.

He won't remember what words he used, later. Other things stay with him -- the light white wine sipped through lunch, heartfelt shoulder clasps and handshakes that were somehow unexpected, the way his colleagues called him Professor Burr. There are the boys he helped through nights of cramming and anxious days, the eager-eyed ones that chased him for a few words of advice (free of charge). Madison in the front row, smiling. Matters of eloquence seemed small compared to that. 

It's a celebration for what was achieved as much as a farewell. But Burr looks at the auditorium resonating with clapping, feels the sweat slick on his hands, and all can do is wonder if he has accomplished anything at all. 

 _'Is this what a legacy is?'_ He asks himself, while speaking, while bowing and descending the podium and accepting congratulations. Planting words in the minds of children you will never see again? He does not know. It make him miss his children a little bit more.

 Lunch with the faculty turns into dinner at the inn or wherever the proud families are lodged. A cloudless day turns to a balmy night, a sky of lazy paintbrushes in lilac hues. A pretty thought, and one that shows he has spent too much time with artists. That's not why Burr declines every invitation that comes his way, and it's not the excuse he offers, but he makes due with good wishes and believable lies.

Well. Some are more insistent than others.

“Aaron!” Madison skids in front of him, grinning from ear to ear. He keeps his voice quiet in deference to the place, but it had a been a good day for him, commendations and praises from all corners, and it shows in the round curve of his smile.

The cheer wilts when he catches sight of the suitcase under the desk. He sobers, staring at him sharply. Burr squashes ruthlessly any inkling of guilt.

“Me and the rest of the club are going to come to the pub for free drinks. We were wondering were you had gotten to, and I said, knowing Burr he's probably in the library.”

Burr barely looks up. “I was just writing.” He nodded to one of the chairs when Madison continued to stand.

The silence isn't awkward, but it isn't comfortable either. They both knew he hadn't intended to say farewell in person. Cowardly, some would call it. Safer, he would have answered once. He keeps his justifications to himself, nowadays. 

"You know," he muses, "I've never asked you what it is you write so diligently."

He takes a moment to register the question. "Are you asking now?"

"Depends. Will you honestly answer?" They smiled slightly at each other, in mimicry of another conversation. Again, Burr is swayed into speaking out. Madison's unassuming manner did wonders; a handy skill to have.

He looks down at the notebook in front of him. There were stray pages stitched to the books' spine. A fat drop of ink had splattered in the inside of the leather cover, a token from when he'd tried to write down his torments on one of his worst nights.

"It's a memoir." He checks the sharpness of the quill, then takes out a quill sharpener. His hand makes the smooth movements without conscious thought.

"An Emperor's thoughts during his last days. He remembers his past conquests and worries about the future of his Empire, which is fraught with civil war and outside threats. The Emperor has no children, you see, and the kingdom in breaking itself apart in revolution. Outside the castle gates the people call for his death. All his failures are becoming clear in the light of revolution."

He stops himself. The chair creaks as he displaced his weight. "His legacy is only ashes and lies. All the better that there's no one to inherit."

 "Seems interesting. How does it end?" 

The quill sharpener misses its target and cuts out a strand of the feather. It nicks his finger. "I'm still working on that."

Madison raises his hands. "Alright, alright. I don't suppose you are going to coming to the club, will you? You have been itching to disappear for months now." Madison says, appraising him. He catches Burr's blink with a quiet laugh." You are not nearly as secretive you like to think, Aaron. You haven't told anyone any future plans of yours, if you have any."

"I don't have one," Burr says, "Or, I do have many plans, too many of them. We'll see which turn out to be more useful. And for your information, I'm very talented at keeping secrets."

Madison lifts his eyebrows almost mockingly.

"I will take your word for it."

He stares at him some more, that intense scrutiny that made him something more than introverted. Time travel or not, James Madison knew a secret when he saw one. That he did not dig too deeply made Burr more grateful than he liked to be.

"If I may? I doubt we'll be seeing each other again for a good while."

Burr waves him on, curious despite himself. Madison had that particular look on his face that meant he had spent a good deal of though on an issue and had now came to the stage where he schooled everyone else on his conclusion.

He stiffens when he clasps his shoulders. A personal conclusion, then. 

"I feel that it is my duty as your friend and fellow man to tell you something before you do something you might regret, "he stares at him closely, making sure he was paying attention. "Aaron Burr. You have a stick the size of a pole up your ass."

Silence. Burr gapes, too astonished to register the insult. 

"Look, I'm aware that you're not completely humorless, you can even be hilarious, but honestly, man! You take yourself too seriously! I'm hardly a model libertine, here, and I live more than you do." He tries to cut in but Madison goes on, eyes wide and earnest. Burr can only hear, mortified. He seems to be under the impressions that he is offering _advice_. 

"Now, there's nothing wrong with not drinking, or whoring, or doing much of anything besides writing and brooding. Freneau tells me its all the fashion with poets these days." Madison waves his hands in a placating way that is downright insulting. "You're a private person, I'm a private person, that's good as long as it's healthy. Which it isn't for you, clearly."

"I'm a healthy person!"" Burr protests, finally finding his voice. "You're the sickly one here. And I don't have a pole up my ass," he adds belatedly.

Madison just looks at him. Burr is shaken to see not only sympathy in his eyes, but understanding too. 

"You're not healthy." He says bluntly. "Maybe physically you are fine right now, but you were sick for a long time  I know what it looks like, Aaron. The restlessness, the aimlessness. The fear that if you don't do what you have to do now you might never get the chance again, but you don't know how to go about it. You were confined for so long that you don't know what to do when you're set free. I'm not asking questions," he assures, seeing his frozen expression, "Lord knows there are many types of illnesses, not all of them of the body. But it does no one any good if you ignore your distress, including yourself. There's no point in clinging to shame." 

Burr sways, stills, stops breathing. His skin feels cold and scorching hot at the same time. For a brief, terrible moment he is certain he is paralyzed again, can't make his body move. Madison's voice sounds very far off, his hand very heavy in his shoulder. 

"I couldn't move." He whispers. His voice sounds hoarse, unfamiliar to his ears and he doesn't care, because-- "I gave up. I _couldn't move_." He chokes around something tight and hot in his throat. It feels like all he has done for lifetimes after lifetimes is choke back his regrets, swallow around the humiliation of it.

It had been a methodical death. The degeneration of the body, leaving him to battle inside for a moment of clear thought. There had been no point in fighting the pain. Every shred of self sufficiency, respect, _liberty_ , stripped away from the inside. For someone that had hung his sanity on being the only thing he could control, it was the utter dissolution of the self.

And slow. God, the Grim Reaper had taken its sweet time about it. 

The most shameful part, though, hadn't been the depends on others, or the crippling, or even the painful loss of his mind: it was that clarity of thought had been worse.

' _I'm alive_ ', he tells himself, whispers, wills it to be the truth because it _has_ to be, ' _I'm alive, I can move_.' He doesn't think: ' _I can make it right again._ ' He doesn't say: ' _I_ _t won't ever happen again, any of it_.' He's been weaning himself off the habit of self delusion. 

If Madison hears anything, he doesn't say and Burr doesn't ask. 

Later, they will shake hands, almost-but-not-quite hug. Burr will promise to write, confessing that the addresses will probably be unreliable, and Madison will steal a promise from him to visit Virginia. Madison will leave for that drink with the other boys, but only with after proper offers to stay, but no doubt he will soon be drunk on spirits and hope again. 

There will be no more reason to linger. Burr will get up, gather his suitcase, leave a couple of borrowed books in the librarian's desk. Then he will walk out of the college gates and vanishes. It will be that easy.

Except. Nothing about it will be easy.

  

*

  

The issue with laws is that the great majority of them to do not exist under the assumption that time travels exist. If one holds the opposite to be the truth, though, a world of loopholes reveals itself. Burr was not daft. Existential crisis not withstanding, he had realized soon after awakening the realm of possibilities, his very advantageous position, and his decision to stay away from important events didn't diminish that in the least.

Because it would be the height of stupidity to ride away from New Jersey in the middle of the night, he spent the rest of the night walking by the riverbank. Not Weehawken, it must be said. Leaving actually gave him room to maneuver. And room to breathe. The weight of the past was too thick for comfort. Even in a new life he felt stagnant. 

Strictly speaking, he hadn't lied to Madison. He did have plans, plenty of schemes, none of them better or worse than them others. Dreams, all. It was not his place to act anymore; he had lost that privilege quite soundly, for good reasons, and most likely would do the same if given the chance. 

He was achingly aware that there was very little he wouldn't do for his goals. Matters of ethics and morals had always been put to the side, to be considered at a latter lime. That strategy had foiled him when he had become an invalid, with no choice but to consider the value of life and all other such dull topics. Wallowing in the things he would do differently had been much more attractive under a haze of laudanum.

Death had not miraculously given him a moral code. That, he suspected, he would have to create for himself. 

To put it plainly, he was adrift.

So he says good riddance to New Jersey and takes to the road. The sun was hot, the path was pressed dirt and the occasional company was rude and distrustful. For the first days he didn't care. His spirits were only too glad to give freedom to the restlessness that had gathered under his skin for entirely too long. Galloping beside the Hudson, and then, when the road went deeper into the countryside, through the fields and plantations, was a pleasure he had never expected to enjoy again. 

' _I've been an old man for too long_ ,' he thinks, panting, looking behind to see if anyone had seen his brief loss of dignity. There was no one around in miles to see him grin to himself and press the horse, rising in the stirrups with childish glee. Only the river to his left and the woods to the right, and the clear sky above. 

The next morning he nearly regrets that burst of uncharacteristic impulsiveness. He wakes up with the cockerel cries, in some shabby inn, with a sore rump and a sort of self conscious embarrassment. The soreness passes as his body gets used to harsher efforts than a schoolboy's. The embarrassment, that takes longer to lose.

 Somewhere between skirting Delaware and taking a curve around Maryland he stops holding himself back from talking with the horse. He's unsure if that should be counted as a victory or a loss. 

Slowly, he sheds layers of himself. His good coat, worn down and turned into a blanket. The habit of waking with church bells instead of bird calls. His hands bleed for the first days before the riding calluses set in, and it takes a while for them to lose the stiffness. 

He writes, leaning against stones and trees, laying down between the corn and while eating. Nothing as coherent as a travel journal, not quite a series of essays. Stray thoughts, mostly, recollections of the past or musings on that rock shaped like Adam's head. Philosophy, more than he ever cared for before. Revelations, the kind that feel like strikes to the gut, the kind that make him reign in the horse and sit by the road with his head between his knees for a small eternity. 

He doesn't touch his big project. It's harder to hate himself for writer's block when there were always more miles to tread, and another landmark to work towards.

There is a rhythm to traveling, he finds. That first night was a rarity. Most times he falls asleep in hay mounds or ditches, barns when the owners are friendly, guest beds when they are generous. The further North he travels the more forests take the place of fields, pinewood and oak and chestnut. He keeps to the road when possible, taking directions only when necessary.

He sleeps deep untroubled sleeps. Or maybe he is just becoming used to the gunshot echoes. Even insomnia must bow to sheer exhaustion sometimes.

The berth he's giving New York is large enough to hold a small country, but if it means avoiding the chance of meeting anyone relevant, he'll take the blisters and forest trails every day.

" _No_ , Demeter, not that wheat. It's not ours. No, wait," Burr twists around. Demeter nudged his shoulder, staring at him balefully. Her glassy eyes seem to be asking him why he denies her food.

"Impossible beast," he huffs. He tugs the reigns away from the hay mound to the pond. The grass tickles his bare feet. He stands for a while, letting the cool water lap at his ankles.

"Here, have some grass." He'd first met her while wandering in rural New Jersey. She'd been a small thing, being herded to the slaughterhouse by the farmer who owned her, who had been ready to trade a runty mare that was unlikely to breed for the decent price he could get for her meat.

 Burr had bought her, rented space in the farmer's stable and to visit her very evening after class. A sentimental whim, but old men were allowed their sentimentality, and at the time he hadn't been able to stomach the idea of more senseless killing. He'd called her Demeter, for her love of wheat and flowers. Time and care had given her a chance at life, if not as a mother then as a travel horse.

 He sits down. "See, don't you like lawful grass much better?" She flickers her tail in answer. He turns the tomato slices on the pan and leans back, closing his eyes. The sunlight filters through the leaves, painting spots on his eyebrows. He'd made camp under a twisted oak in the corner of a field, blocked on one side by a crumbling wall, a short walk away from the main road. The smell of steaming tomatoes rose with the smoke.

 A pebble skids and falls down the slope. Burr doesn't twitch.

"If you're going to shoot me, I'd rather you went for the abdomen. Personal preference, is all."

A thump. Burr sighs, opening one eye an inch, then pushes himself to his feet.

"Don't move! This is a robbery. I'll shoot!" The voice wavered on the last word.

 Burr lifted his arms amiably, but continued to walk. "Fair enough. Don't mind me, I'm just checking on the food. Tomato?"  

A pause. "Are you daft?" 

"Oh, without a doubt. Come out, will you? I feel even dafter talking to thin air."

 Another moment of weighted silence. Then a figure approaches around the old wall. It was an old man, with ratty clothes and a bushy grey beard. But his eyes were bright beneath a brimmed hat and his grip on the gun didn't waver.

They stare at each other, Burr crouched down and the would-be robber's shadow looming over him. Smart. He'd crept in with the light in his favor.

Burr extends his hand, conscious of the finger hovering right over the trigger. He should be terrified, and in a way he was, of losing all the opportunities he was only getting used to, but he couldn't be bothered to fear for his own life. That was probably worrying.

 He grips the satchel and tosses it to the ground. "The money is in here, if that's what you want." 

He picks up a slice of tomato, ignoring the heat and blowing out the smoke. "You haven't said no to the tomato," he pointed out. 

The old man looks at him hard. Burr shrugs, focused on eating without making any sudden movements. In one smooth action he picked up the satchel, took out a tomato and sat down, never lowering the gun.

The air was tense, heavy with the anticipation of gunpowder. Burr burrows his fingers in the dark soil, every toe curled in itself. Demeter kept tossing her head to dislodge flies. He thought vaguely that he should brush her soon. A pheasant jumps from twig to twig above their heads. Before Burr had time to blink, the old men twists his torso, shoots the pheasant and caught it as it fell down.

 "Stop your gaping boy, or it's you next time." He orders gruffly. Bluffing, maybe, but Burr scoots soundlessly to the side. The robber busied himself with plucking the feathers off the pheasant. Some of them were blown away in the wind, others fell to the pond and stayed there, floating and sinking slowly. Using three twigs he made a spit for the bird, whistling all the while.

At one point Burr takes out his canteen and offers it. The old man takes a sip and spits.

"Bah! What's this shit?"

 "Water," he answered, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. 

"There's no use of to a drink if it doesn't get you drunk." he took out his own canteen and lifted it lazily. "Cheers."

 "Cheers."

(There was a bitterness there Burr was well acquainted with. The first thing he'd done after the duel had been to get a drink, and he'd never really stopped. This body didn't have that craving written in its bones yet, and he'd rather keep it that way.

Either way, water always goes best with the dust of the road.)

They ate in silence, passing tomatoes and meat around.

 "Are you one of them fool rebels?" The man asks while chewing. Hunched over the food, gnawing at the thin bird bones, he hasn't stopped looking at Burr once. He took care not to seem desperate, though. A proud man, who stood unflinching on his own bleeding feet. Burr almost envies him.

Burr only smiles mildly. "Would a rebel travel alone without a weapon?"

The other man snorts. "Don't play me for a pansy, boy, you got a knife in your belt." Burr blinks, stopping himself on time not to touch the hidden dirk. The old man gave a bark of laughter. Then he got up as abruptly as he had sat down. Burr had to squint to see him, but he hears the sound of the satchel hitting the ground well enough.

"Thanks for the tomatoes." He turns around to go.

"Wait!" Burr swears under his breath, already regretting what he was going to say. "Take the boots. Just do it, before I come back to my senses."

The old man hesitated, then took the shoes. The way he put them on, it was like he hadn't worn some in a long long time.

 Burr curses himself for a fool the next day, feet bleeding and full of splinters, but he remembers watching that old man that could so easily have been him in another life, walking surely down the road, and it's hard not to feel petty. He tells himself to be grateful, that as far as road robberies went it had been weirdly peaceful, and very determinedly does not think of debts and charity, or how that could have been him, or that with a body that old and that weary making all that way on foot would have been motivation enough to kill for a pair of shoes.

More and more he realizes that in matters of atonement, he owed much not just to one person, but all those that had suffered by his inaction.

 

 *

 

The weather takes a turn for the worse on the last leg of the journey.

A week after passing Connecticut, the road had turned into a myriad of trails crossing the forests. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Far away but getting closer, a plate of purple clouds spread out in the sky. 

"Come along, Demeter." he moves them back to the road, Demeter still munching on flower stems. They set off easily in a gallop, and he dares hope they'll arrive before to civilization without getting caught in the storm.

In the end it catches up to them around midday. The rain falls in diagonal sheets, pitter-pattering from leaf to leaf. The sky had been the color of old copper since the day before, swallowing the usual green forest light, but now the world was swathed in purple and gray. The brooks, of which there are many in this part of the grove, engorge and sing, making the ground more slippery.

A bold of lightning crisscrosses the sky, throwing the forest in sharp relief for a few breathless seconds. Burr wraps an arm around Demeter to stop her from bolting, gritting his teeth as she buckles and counting down under his breath. The thunder comes at four-five- _six_ , then three-four- _five_. By the time it gets to two-three- _four_  all the animals are scurrying to their burrows. _One_  and the storm is right above him, fearsome and hungry electric, the air catches in his throat, heavy with static and smelling of ozone.

A bolt crashes white-purple on a tree, too close for comfort, and he hurries away when it begins to smoke and catch fire. He palms his way around, searching for a branch to tie the reins, then slips, slides on his back and lies there, blinking water out of his eyes.

He groans. It is a struggle to stagger back on his feet, mud and worms sticking up to his ankles. He finds Demeter cowering by a shallow opening in a group of crags. Shivering and cursing under his breath, he tied her to a root growing between the stone.

Lightning, thunder, lightning, thunder. Breaches in the stone sent the water dripping down the walls, running in rivulets down the stone. His head aches something fierce. He presses it against the cold wall for a moment before unwrapping the blankets. The notebook is damp, the ink easy to smudge, but it isn't a disaster. He takes out the chalk, settles in to write some more. The electricity in the air sparkled new thoughts, made his heart beat with adrenaline-fueled inspiration.

 Ahead and around and over him, the summer storm rages on.

The lumberjacks found him next morning, eating a breakfast of blueberries and raisins. They'd came to check the damage the storm had made to the trees. He shakes their hands with dark-smudged fingers. They approach him warily at first, then curiously. He can only wonder how he looks. His good clothes, bought with trust fund money, are rent and dirty, his feet have created a layer of callouses to deal with the ground and are coated with mud. The scratches on his arms and face from falling the day before are obvious, some of them still bleeding. He hasn't bothered shaving in weeks, and his face and head twinge with the unusual weight.

 Still, he's in a good mood. Finishing a book will do that for you.

"Where are you from, if I may ask?" 

The lumberjack look among themselves. One of them laughs. "You must be very lost, friend. We're from Boston." 

"Ah," he smiles, "that's quite alright. I'm headed there."

The issue with laws, is that there are no clauses dealing with knowledge for the future, is that in the absence of rules of conduct, every bold assertion and plausible rule are useless. All things considered, in these matters, it wasn't the law that set limitations, but men themselves.


	3. A Mind At Work

  
Prologue, or The Beginning Is The Dedication, Dear Readers:  _to old enemies and older friends_

 

The Boston Gazette

  
_THE WILL OF THE EMPEROR_ by T. Saul

  
IS GOING TO CHANGE THE GAME, SAYS FRANKLIN

Last Friday a new book came out in our city's most promenient press. We are priviledged to report the birth of a work of art and genius. Read the review by Benjamin Franklyn about how The Death of the Emperor will change things in both shores of this Empire, followed by our best guesses at the identity of the author.

 

Salem

THE WILL OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE OR THE WILL OF THE EMPEROR? IS THIS BOOK A CALL TO ARMS OR A PHILOSOPHICAL THREATY? WHO IS THE MYSTERIOUS MR. T. SAUL

  
Paris  
REVOLUTIONAIRY AMERICAN TOME EAGERLY WAITED BY FRANCE'S PRESS. WHO IS T. SAUL?

 

London  
TREASONOUS BOOK FORBIBEEN IN ENGLAND. IS IT A DANGER? WHO IS T. SAUL?

  
To A.Burr, Jr., Boston  
September of 1773

  
Burr, I'm going to ask this only once. WHO IS T. SAUL?

J. Madison, Virginia

 

To A.Burr, Jr., Boston  
September of 1773

  
Answer you daft fool.

  
J. Madison, Virginia

 

To James Madison, Virginia  
Semtember of 1773

 

Dear Jemmy, you might be pleased to know of my continued existance. I have been traveling this last two months and a fortnight and have arrived at Boston, tired and worn but in one piece. Only yesterday, in fact, did I have the time to start putting my correspondence in order. I am writing to you from my room in a inn, sometime around midnight. I have grown rather unused to soft beds in the wild, so that sleep is not easily found. I tell yuo not to worry; I am in perfect health. What of yourself and your family?

I've found the atmosphere here o be as expected. After taking the lenght of my journey to consider your advice, I have decided to not be perhaps so stritc in matter of business and pleasure both. In a similar note, perhaps you might not mind sharing your thoughts in literature? It has been too long since I had solid conversation. I am afraid my horse has few thought in regard to oratory. 

Friendly regards,

  
Aaron Burr, Jr.  
Boston

 

To A. Burr, Jr ., Boston  
October of 1773

  
Don't you dare address your letter to Dear Jemmy when I am most cross with you! Damn you, when I told you to lighten up I didn't mean for you to write a revolutionary book!

  
J. Madison  
Virginia

P.S.: of course I like the book. as if you had to ask. it has made me sleepless with heavy thoughts, if that's what you were looking for.

 

  
To J. Madison, Virginia

October of 1773

  
I am certain I have no idea of what you speak of, Madison.

  
A. Burr, Boston

  
P.S.: do be careful with the mail, will you? fools who write their fingers off don't last long.

 

 

To: To: T. Saul , Undisclosed Location,

October of 1773

 

Dear Mr. Saul, I start this letter by saying how very much I admire you. Indeed , I has a been too long since I have read a book as original and, I daresay, focal as yours. (...) I is a most ambitious message for any book, even more so considering it is your first published under this pseudonym.

  
In danger of sounding like an eager youngster, let me speak of which parts I liked best of your work. The writing is an example of excellence, that you have a great talent with words is easily seen, in the mastery with which you weave places and characters as solid as ourselves.

The Emperor himself was pathetic and tragic at once, with a touch of Brutus in him. In him you have captured all the best and the worst of human nature. Your view on aging is rather dim, however, almost as pessimistic as your take on republic. For the President Elect to be a woman! Though there is merit even there, in the female representation of Freedom and Liberty.

And of course, the ending has just enough hopeful potential for you not to become the most hated man in the colonies.

Do not fear that I might make any inquiries upon your identity. I find that the words one writes to the public tell more about their private life than they may care to reveal. ask you, however, that you might give me the pleasure of knowing of your character further, by the means of correspondences. (...) Certainly two minds such as your united can only bring the best of changes upon the world.

Please do sate my curiosity: is the name you go by in any way related to the saint Paul of Tarsus, named Saul by his roman kin? The tale of the relentless prosecutor blinded by the light of the Lord, regaining his sight only when accepting the weight of his sins, is one of the most relevant of the Great Book. That he was a most prolific and controversial author devoted to the message of Christ made him a singularly interesting biblical figure. The greatest tale of redemption, do you not agree.

Forgive me, I have wandered from the main point. Let us move on to matter of business. With this letter I send you a formula of a contract expanding upon publishing fees and anonymity clauses. I am certain we will be able to reach an agreement with the greatest ease and amiability.

On this matter, I have a preposition for you. You may pardon my arrogance, but I dare say that since coming to Boston you have become acquainted with mine own newspaper(...).

  
Effusive regards, delivered with the hope of fruitful friendship,  
B. Franklin, Massachusetts

  
  
To: T. Saul, Undisclosed Location,

November of 1773

  
It is with great pleasure that we accept the following terms of publishing in regard of the pamphlets & essays of the author currently going by the pseudonym of T. Saul. May this be a fruitful deal for all involved.

The Boston Gazette, Boston

 

*

  
Franklyn was not far of the mark when it came to the choice for pseudonym. It _had_ been a biblical reference. It did not suit perfectly - not even at his most delusional had he declared Hamilton to be the Holy Ghost or any nonsense of the kind, Lord Forbid. But Burr had been raised on proverbs and the older books of the bible, and even as a child St. Paul's conversion had sat strangely in him. Forgiveness and repentance hadn't been messages his family had approved off, so he had forgotten it, and paid closer attention to Leviticus or the Revelation, and the Father's long bloody memory.

No, Hamilton wasn't the Holy Ghost, and neither was Burr a saint. But Saul the Roman had been a sinner through and through, until the scales of blindness had peeled from his eyes and he had seen clearly for the first time. He wasn't there yet, may never reach that point, but it had been a long time since he had thought himself clear sighted.

Saul's blindness had happened to him, Burr's revival hadn't been his choice, but maybe they would learn similar lessons.

 

*

The T was for his Theodosias. It couldn't have been anything else.

*

  
PAMPHLET AGAINST THE EVILS OF SLAVERY  
with focus on the British Colonies, in an appeal to the public & H. Majesty's government, with the goal of clearing perceptions in regards of Humane Nature and the concept of ownership

By T. Saul

TREATISE IN FAVOR OF THE LIBERATION OF THE NATION IN HARMONY WITH THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE, or why sedition is not treason,  
by T. Saul, with quotations of Locke

ON MATTERS OF REPRESENTATION OF THE PEOPLE  
in Parliament, the body of the people  
by T. Saul

*

  
It is only when paying the innkeeper for the first month that he realized it. Stupidly, it hadn't passed his mind before, so he had to come up with an excuse that wasn't 'trust fund baby' to explain how he got the means to pay her.

A lone man, arriving without expanding on why, with an apparent endless supply of coins during these tense time. It had to be suspicious. He'd forgotten how it felt to live with baited breath, waiting for the gunshots to start, but rustiness was no excuse.

The supply wasn't endless, that was the problem. The money he had taken from his fund in New Jersey hadn't been that much. It would have been folly to travel the roads with a heavy wallet. Instead he had taken the essential to last him for the journey and pay for sustenance afterwards, at least until the whole tea debacle.

He'd like to say he was above worrying about mundane things such how to pay for his lodgings, not to mention food, but while Franklin payed well enough and the books were making him a rich man very quickly, counting coins before going to sleep and after waking up was something he had imply done for too long.

If there was something he was certain he would not do was return to the despicable state of dependence on others, constantly evading his debts. Loans were naturally in inconsiderable, then, and other revenues...he'd have to think more about it, and anyway Boston was not the place for it.  Some more money couldn't hurt, but he couldn't afford to cause suspicions. Which meant getting a paying job.

He just hadn't expected it to be so _difficult_.

Even putting law out of the question, he was a Princeton graduate. Twice. That he didn't reveal that fact was not the point - it should have been clear from the first.

"You've never had experience in keeping ledgers?"

' _Certainly_ ', he thinks archly. ' _Do you want a recommendation letter from Jefferson or Washington?_ '. Though on further thought, they would be unlikely to give positive reports, for very different reasons.

"No, but I've studied art and history closely. Is not history a game of economy masked as pretexts for war?"

The merchant gives him a final dubious look. "We're not interested in history, just somebody to lift crates."

"Wait!" Burr calls, but the door had already closed and he had to step back not to have it hit his nose. "I can lift crates!"

He huffs, scratching at the new beard. Some commuters give him odd looks. He makes himself adjust his hat, straighten his back and move on from the closed door. This firm had been one of his last choices, but every other association or store looking for a clerk had closed its door to him so far. He'd found better welcomes while campaigning from door to door, but then again, the times were different. 

"That's a dim look on history. There was a good deal of personal vendettas thrown around too."

He turns around, squinting at the pale light. A man was leaning against a nearby doorstep, watching him with his head tilted.

"In my experience, personal vendettas are timeless," he says. "And never worth the hassle."

The other man grins easily. "Might be, I wouldn't know. Public causes are more my thing. Henry Knox." he nods to the plaque over the door, warning potential buyers that it was Knox's Bookstore. "Not a very original name, but our collection on military books makes for it."

Not Washington, just his Secretary of War. It would do. Burr isn't exactly in a position to bargain, but that had never stopped him before.

"Aaron Burr." He steps closer. Knox's livid bruises are clearer up close, that damn stare not easing one bit. "I don't suppose you're looking for help around the shop "

Knot gave him a sceptic look. "No offense, but you really don't look like clerk material."

Burr has to resist the urge to look down at himself. The clothes are new, they had to be since the traveling garments weren't in any state for an outing, much less to approach potential employers, but his beard and hair are neatly trimmed and he'd shined the shoes with cheap oil that morning.

"It's the poise." Knox explains. "You don't walk like a civilian." ' _You don't walk like someone who has to go around asking for a job',_ he doesn't say.

Burr is almost offended. He'd thought he'd gotten the knack of not-quite begging for help. 

He narrows his eyes, a disconcerting expression with his friendly smile still in place. Knox had always been a canny one. Burr had never liked him, nor his approach in military matters. Saying so would have brought him nothing, so he hadn't. He doesn't regret not acting, exactly, as much as he asks himself if he'd always felt so annoyed at the blatant scheming. 

"You're not a spy, are you?"

Burr snorts. He can't help it."I've been many things, but not a spy." A traitor, sure, a murderer and a failure, but not a spy. No matter what they had said after his vice presidency, he had not gone out of his way to ruin America. That had been unintended.

"Good. I'd hate to kill an employee. Bad working policy, I always say."

"I should think so. I will work weeks and Saturdays, eight to eight."

"Five to nine. Shipments come early and someone has to shelve the book at the end of the day."

"Six to nine, and aim free to read and write during lulls in costumers."

"Deal."

They shake hands, Knox's scabbed and swollen. It is odd to see him so lithe, flushed and fresh out of a fight with his band of street fighters.

Retail turns out to be much like minding his own library had been, while at the same time using his considerable abilities of persuasion to convince his visitors to take home certain books. That wasn't particularly difficult, and in truth he relished the chance to use his rhetoric out loud for a good cause. When push came to shove, selling books was not all that different from selling ideals.

Shelving and serving would never be pleasurable, and Knox cackled every time Burr had to bit back a retort at being treated like a servant. Which he now was. Only until things truly started moving, he tells himself, and then he would leave as soon as it was safe. As long as he was careful enough, respectful and boring all altogether a common clerks none would think to add his person to the mysterious T. Saul. He was here only to nudge things along, guide from the shadows

Even if that meant being called on to make banal chores. That never stopped smarting. But it gave him time enough to write, established an identity beyond reproach, and that was what mattered, what with the growing number of requests for articles from the Gazette.

It was the people themselves he could have gone without.

"Mr. Adams, I'm afraid the books aren't for public consumption."

"What?" John Adams looks up with a blink. He seems surprised to find himself in the back from of the bookshop, and even more to notice that he os the last one there. By far the quietest of Boston's branch of the Son's of Liberty, he had a knack for opening the books and falling into the words without a by-your-leave from the bookshop clerks. Being Samuel Adams' brother, and a budding leader himself, no one called him out on it.

Burr did. He was too old to deal with this nonsense. "Sir, either you buy the book or let it undisturbed." he adds, relishing the way Adams shifted guiltily. Clerk or not, he wasn't going to clean up after Adams.

"Oh, that's quite alright, I'll be taking it with me then."

"Very good."

They move out of the back room, looking less like the planning site for a revolutions group and more like it needed a dusting. _Again_.

There are stray pages from discarded pamphlets and half-drawn illustrations, chairs out of place and tables moved together to make space. Tonight had been like most meeting nights, with a growing tension coiling through the group. Burr had stayed in the back, occasionally leaving to man the front desk, making as if he were shelving books and not listening to Samuel Adams and company going on about the need for representation in the Parliament.

He listens. Then he closes the store and goes home, to the drafty second story room at the inn, and writes letters of advise about how to approach the taxation issue, what weeks pots to exploit, how to turn a mob into a revolution, when the time came. It wouldn't be long, now.

"Only this?" Burr asks from the other side of the desk. Adams scours thought his pockets for the money.

"Yes, yes. Wrapped, please. Never too soon to prepare for Yule. " 

Adams catches him looking at the book.

"Have you read it?" He asks, breaking the silence. John Adams trying to make small talk was about as successful as John Adams trying to make government. He blunders on, "My wife and I have most enjoyed it."

"No, I can't say I have."

"But I doubt you haven't heard of the author?

Burr bites his cheek until his mouth is full of iron and swallowed laughter "It seems everyone has head of him."

"Those articles of his are quite something, though I can't say I agree with much of it." Of course you don't. Adams is gushing. Dear God." But there is a basis to it that is rather interesting. Well, every revolution needs a great writer. Me. Saul seems to be doing the job admirably so far."

A wind blowed from the door, whipping the curtains around, letting rain inside to pool on the floor.

"Mr. Adams, there you are. You've taken your time." Hands in her hips, Abigail Adams shock her head at her husband.

Adams goes  pink around the ears. "You must forgive me, Mrs. Adams. I was busy buying a new tome of that excellent book we have enjoyed, for I think your father will enjoy it most troughouhly. Besides," he adds, teasingly," I am hardly the only one in my household to get lost in a good book every once in a while."

Mrs. Adams laughs." Oh, very well, you are forgiven. Never let it be said I am unjust."

Burr coughed. ' _No, you'll have to wait for Hamilton to get to that particular insult_.' He clasps that thought close to his chest against the sudden draft, while aswering the Adam's farewells and watching them leave arm in arm, too busy with each other to mind the cold.

Alone in the store, he shivers.

 

*

OF EDUCATION & LEARNING IN THE COLONIES: How The Right of Education is Neglected

by T. Saul

*

 

_JOURNAL ENTRY_

Christmas Day 1773 - Mail arrived at seven. This journal was the only parcel for my self. Gift from Madison. Engrossed with my initials, A. Burr. On purpose, of course. Sent my gift last month, should have arrived already. Have only found time to write it now. Day off work, Christmas mass in the morning, wrote until midday, then some more after lunch.

Was invited to dine in the living room, declined. Would rather not spend time with other loggers. Unusually good meal, vegetables broth. chicken with potatos. No doubt shall find according moneys requested at the end of the month, so very soon. No worries, fund will last for now.

Then opened presents, received under Burr. A new Chaucer from my employer, very nice.  Gave last of the apples to Demeter, received nickering in return. A fair trade. An umbrella from myself, finally! The haberdasher was most careful in following the description of my old umbrella. Expect tailored additions to be useful soon. Have found myself to be an attentive gift giver!

Shall be visiting the Knoxes tomorrow, if snow allows. Snowed lightly yesterday, in earnest now. Currently wearing five layers, nose not cooperating. Hope Madison is having better weather.

It is pleasant to have a journal of my own again. Will now write letter of thanks.

*

THE SONS OF LIBERTY CALL YOU

TO PUBLIC MEETING ABOUT TAXATION LAWS & INJUSTICES

  
~~FANEUIL HALL~~ THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HALL, 29TH DECEMBER

*

  
Aaron Burr is a hypocrite.

This is no news to himself, but if ever he were in need of an example, this would be it. It was an unpleasant realization to have in December while rowing a small boat dressed from head to toes as an Indian, but Burr is suddenly acquainted with the feeling Hamilton must have had when he told him not to do anything brash.

Had Hamilton felt like he did now, when Burr called for caution? It was alien not to be the voice of reason for once. Madison was going to be insufferable. No matter how much of a calculated risk, tonight _was_ a risk. Living in general was rather dangerous, living twice moreso. 

There had been a moment, in the Old South Meeting Hall, watching Adams flounder as the meeting turned into a mob, when Burr had nearly stood up. Once a lieutenant, always a lieutenant, as they say. But Adams had managed to maintain an hold in the situation, only just. In the confusion, Burr had gone unnoticed, by means of being just capable enough and just unremarkable enough to be useful in a naval attack.

A cold wind whistles through, flapping his clothes about. A feather falls on his nose and tickles. He is sweating with the strain of rowing. An aching and then a numbness had been making its way from his shoulders down his arms until he is half sure his fingers are frozen to the paddle.

  
_'Could they not have scheduled the beginning of the revolution in Spring?_ ' He thinks uncharitably. The goosebumps were almost painful. Pull, push, pull, push. The water ripples softly under the movement, starlight reflecting off the waves. _'Seems wasteful to destroy all possibilities of hot beverages in bloody December._ ' Alas, the sacrifices of war.

Close and getting closer, the great British cargo ships rise like mountains beside them.

  
In the boat ahead a figure got up. Samuel bleeding Adams. Nearly as bad as his brother, distinguishable from Johnby the fact that he was the idiot yelling terms at the British, while John Adams was the idiot yelling orders at the same time to the other boats.

The terms fail. Obviously. His boat mates break the silence, checking their pistols, fidgeting with battle jitters. Burr's heart rate hardly stirs. He grips the grappling hook with a sigh, tightening the rope around his arm.

He was going to be smelling of tea for weeks, he could already tell.

 

*

  
The Boston Gazette  
  
RIOTERS DESTROY BRITISH TEA - WILD MOB OR ARMY IN THE MAKING?

A DEFENSE OF THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TEA OF BOSTON, by T. Saul, from the Boston Gazette

Wiser men than this humble writer have said it is not the meaning behind the act, but the act itself that must be judged. Following such a doctrine, the events of the previous day's would be the most disgusting of disrespects, utterly despicable to any man of honor and thought.

But what is respect, if not admiration genuinely offered? What is respect, if not the due payment of greatness? What is respect, if there is nothing to respect?

[...] If the act of rebellion were as filthy as the British have made it be, it would not be such a true and tried method over time. [...] Every nation has a time of birth, when the people find a voice and a uniting purpose. This going much further than a matter of cruel taxation. Lack of representation means lack of voice. The people of Boston have spoken. We shall not be silenced no longer.

Is this not how countries are born?

 

  
_JOURNAL ENTRY_

4 of Jan, 1774

Have done something foolish. Consequences will be swift. Will be traveling again; have been hoarding provisions as of some weeks with this in mind. Demeter is well rested, thankfully. Mad.'s last letter was confusing, spoke a lot about slavery in Greece and Rome. Will be counting on his hospitality and better explanations.

 

  
To: The Boston Gazette

In the name of His Majesty, George the Third, Lord Sovereign of the British Isles and All Its Colonies, the writer who goes by the name of T. Saul is hereby forbidden from writing, publishing and otherwise having any kind of involvement in your press and editorials, on pain of a permanent end to this press house.

From: Lord North

 

To J. Adams, Boston

January of 1774

Respected sir, I trust that at this time you have already read my latest article. So has Lord North. You can well imagine how that went.

Here I send you a draft for the repayment owned by the Sons of Liberty and other bodies involved in the events of destruction of the tea of Boston. Mr. Franklin is of the opinion the people of Boston owe the British for the profits lost in tea, ships and human life. I say to you, heed his words. Pay your debts. In my experience, it is better to start a war with clean hands. They will be stained enough at the end of it.

I leave with you the means for further contact. I have been faithfully informed that the South is waking up, sir. It will be in your interest, and in those of our soon-to-be nation, for you to do nothing against it. Consider it a warning from a colleague. 

Do not forget the people we fight for. Glory is a heady dream, but poor consolation to the dead.

T. Saul

Boston

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all the wonderful people commenting, leaving kudos and being generally great. You're all amazing!
> 
> The Boston Tea Party was pretty offensive when it comes to using traditional clothes from Native Americans, btw. Not an example to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always very appreciated!
> 
> I'm also on tumblr as searchingforserendipity25


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